Gandalf, The New Dark Lord Dude
by DarthRuinous
Summary: Gandalf makes an impulsive decision, and finds out that ruling the world is harder than it looks. Humor, mix of books and film. Complete!
1. In Which Gandalf Gets a Headache

In Which Gandalf Gets a Headache

"But I have so little of any of these things. You are wise and powerful. Will you not take the Ring?" Frodo held the small golden band before the grey wizard, his small hand steady in offering.

"No!" cried Gandalf, springing to his feet. "But then…" His eyes glazed over as the Ring's power began to grasp him. He stared at the Ring with morbid fascination. Yes…yes. Here Frodo, I'll take that my lad. I will have much need of it before this is over," and he extended his hand to take the Ring.

Aghast, Frodo pulled away, clutching his burden to his chest and pointing an accusing finger at the old family friend. His eyes filled with hobbity indignation. "Nay, fiend! It is mine; you cannot have it!" He began backing away.

Gandalf followed in confusion. "But you just offered it to me," he protested and groaned as he banged his head against one of the rafters. He could feel a headache coming on, and it made him irritable. Irritable wizards are never a good thing.

"You were supposed to politely turn the offer down," Frodo explained, steadily backing himself into a corner. "It's the polite thing to do. (Hobbits are so very bent on manners, it can be frightening.) "Or at the very least, you could get all angry and grumpy, and yell something drastic like, 'DON'T, tempt me further!'"

"Absolute nonsense," Gandalf grumbled; Frodo was tempting him to do something very drastic indeed. "Here we discuss the fate of Middle Earth, and the topic of manners comes to the forefront. Hobbits really are amazing creatures. Now, Frodo, hand over that Ring." He put on his best commanding wizard voice and seemed to grow in size, towering over the small hobbit.

"Nooo! It's mine! My precious!" Frodo looked to run, and found that he was trapped between the wall and the table. He grasped the Ring and smirked cheekily at Gandalf as he prepared to slip it on his finger.

"Oh no, you don't," Gandalf saw this, and with a quickness that belied his appearance, raised his staff and pointed it at Frodo. The end glowed with a blinding white light. "_Turnieth Frodocus flinto ai chairus!" _his voice rumbled like thunder; the light from his staff exploded outwards and enveloped Frodo.

When the air cleared, Frodo was nowhere to be seen. In his place, there sat an elegantly-carved, hobbit-sized, three-legged stool. Two pine knots stared up at the wizard like baleful eyes. (And in a galaxy far, far away, a thousand fan girls screamed in agony.)

"Don't look at me that way," Gandalf harrumphed. "Never meddle in the affairs of wizards, and you asked for it, angering a wizard like that." He was feeling a little guilty for being so quick to anger, but it was part of his job description, after all.

A shriek erupted from the bushes outside, and Sam leapt through the window. Gandalf whirled at the unexpected clatter and consequently slammed into another rafter. "Confound it, Samwise Gamgee!" he cried as he nursed the growing bruise.

"You've turned Mister Frodo into a stool, bless 'is heart," Sam was close to tears, hugging his former master. Gandalf ignored the dwarfish hammering in his head and pulled Sam off the floor. Then he bristled his bushy eyebrows in an extremely threatening manner.

"Have you been eavesdropping?"

"Me? Dropping eaves?" Sam blanched. ""No, sir, I've been trimming the bushes." His eyes widened in terror when Gandalf leaned closer to him, and he pleaded, "Please, sir, don't turn me into anything, unnatural-like."

Gandalf pondered him with all the gravity the Maia could muster. Trimming bushes at night? Hobbits couldn't tell a lie to save their lives. "No? I've thought of a better use for you. Get packed. You're coming along as the new Ring-Lord's chef. I get so very tired of trail mix and warg-jerky. Even wizards have their limits."

"New Ring-Lord?" Sam asked weakly as Gandalf turned away.

"We've got a long, hard ride ahead of us," Gandalf swept the Ring off the table and into his hand. From there, the Ring went into his extra tobacco pouch on his belt. He glanced at Frodo-chair and patted it cheerfully. "Don't worry, Samwise; your master will be fine. Perhaps I'll change him back after we've overthrown the Dark Lord."

"Overthrown the Dark Lord?" Sam repeated faintly, but Gandalf was already out the door. Sam cast one sad, regretful look at Frodo-chair and then ducked out after the wizard.

_Why a chair? _Frodo bemoaned as he sat alone in the quiet kitchen of Bag End. _Why would Gandalf make me a chair? _If he could have, he would have sniffed, loudly. Then the unquenchable optimism of hobbits began to shine through. _No time like the present to work on my riddling skills. What was that one Bilbo used against the creature Gollum? Oh yes, Two Legs sat on Three Legs, and so on… Two Legs has to be a hobbit, or a man. Three Legs…hmmm… What has three legs?_

Fortunately for Frodo, the riddle kept him occupied for some time, and the hours of the first day passed fairly quickly. Not so fortunately, the rest of the days did not go so quickly.

**As you can probably tell, this is going to be a humorous take (or attempt to be) on a mix of the books and the movies. I began this a couple years earlier and came back to finish it. I have only one short chapter left to still write, so this will be regularly updated, have no fear. Read and review. **


	2. In Which Sam's Feet Hurt and

In Which Sam's Feet Hurt and Gandalf Learns of Giraffes

They had been traveling for eight days now, and Sam was desperately searching his mind for another way to cook rabbit. He had no desire to anger Gandalf, after all he'd seen. Up ahead, the new Lord of the Rings was picking his way over the rocky terrain and considering his new Ring.

It was a perfect match to Narya, and the perfect solution to all his problems. He would rid Middle Earth of Sauron and usher in a new era of promise. Forget the silly idea that the Ring might corrupt him. He was a Maia after all; another Maia's ring could hardly control him, right? Galadriel and Elrond were just paranoid elves. He supposed, after living thousands of years, they had the right to senility and paranoia.

My feet hurt," Sam had found his voice again, and Gandalf was beginning to regret his decision to not change Sam into a newt. Yet the Grey Pilgrim had to admit, his own booted feet were starting to tire. Why he, a Maia, had to suffer sore feet was another situation he planned to rectify with the Ring. Sauron never had sore feet, he would wager.

_A lot is going to change. _He turned to Sam. "Will you stop complaining, Sam? I'm trying to think."

"Well, my feet hurt and the only thing worse than a hobbit with sore feet is a giraffe with a sore throat."

Gandalf stared, aghast and stumped by hobbit-kind once again. "What has that got to do with anything? And what on Middle Earth is a giraffe?" he asked, big bushy eyebrows bristling.

Sam forced himself to ignore such a challenging tongue-twister and replied, "It's something my old gaffer used to say," he was past caring if he angered Gandalf. "On vacation down to the stream, he would always make us stop early on in the evening, so's his feet wouldn't hurt. He'd say-well-**that**. And a giraffe is a big spotted creature with reaaallly long legs and a stretched out neck."

Gandalf harrumphed. Only hobbits could think up such fantastic fairy tales. He kept plodding forwards.

Sam still followed the wizard with less-than-dogged fervor. He eyed Gandalf's tall, pointed hat as it bobbed along in front. "New ring-lord," he muttered to himself, "doesn't even know a giraffe when he hears of one. A fine pickle you've landed yourself in, Samwise. Gone and left Mr. Frodo, you have. But Mr. Gandalf said he'd turn him back, maybe. I've got to hope it's so." Sam hopped across a small stream, tugging Gandalf's horse along with him. The massive beast was loaded with their supplies from head to foot, er, hoof.

Sam, bless his little hobbit heart, had no idea where they were going, not even an inkling. To overthrow a Dark Lord, yes, but which Dark Lord? How many Dark Lords were there? Where did one go to overthrow a Dark Lord? He wished he'd listened a bit harder while under the window, but stepping in that ant hill hadn't helped any. "Where is he taking us, I wonder," Sam addressed the horse, who he had secretly named Bill. (He didn't know why; he just liked the name Bill. It had a certain ring to it.)

He didn't intend for the wizard to overhear him, but Gandalf's ears were as sharp as his nose was big. "We're going to Mordor, Sam, to challenge Sauron."

Oh. That Dark Lord. "Did you hear that?" Sam asked Bill. "We're goin' to see the orcs!" A long pause invaded the conversation. "ORCS? Eeeeek!" The sound of a hobbit screaming till he turned red echoed in the forest.

"Stop that infernal screaming, Samwise, or you'll really have something to scream about," the wizard snapped and tapped his staff meaningfully. Sam drained of both noise and color and made not another peep for several hours.

Gandalf was grateful for the time to pull himself together and think. His attention was eventually caught again when he heard two distinct voices coming from up ahead. They were heatedly arguing, sometimes screaming. "Hush!" Gandalf gagged Sam with his hat when he saw the talkative hobbit winding up again. That hat came in useful for all situations. He crept forward to see the debaters, stopped in a large bush, and parted the branches.

A blustering dwarf and an arrogant elf stood in the clearing's middle, yelling into each other's faces. Figuratively, of course, Gandalf amended. The elf was actually yelling into thin air, and the dwarf was screaming at the elf's stomach. He watched the elf glare down at the armored helm. That elf was familiar, and so was the dwarf. Gandalf strained his ears while Sam sputtered quietly behind him.

"-and I tell you, my comb is missing!" the elf declared, jerking his hands to his hips. Gandalf groaned…Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood. The only thing more important than his long flowing hair was his mother-of-pearl comb. Gandalf could now see that the dwarf was Gimli, son of Gloin, one of Gandalf's former companions.

**And so already our intrepid adventurers have hit a snag. Read and review! :)**

**Enchanted Authoress: Thank you for the review! I'm glad you liked it. Yes, Gandalf was under a lot of pressure, and a chair can't run off anywhere, so it was probably the first thing that came to mind. **


	3. In Which Gandalf Gets Between an Elf and

In Which Gandalf Learns to Never Get Between an Elf and His Comb

"And I tell you, a lot more than your comb is missing!" Gimli snarled back at the elf. "Try a brain, or eyes to see where you walk!" He glared daggers at the elf's stomach and ran a gloved hand along his axe blade. Gandalf could see his desire to dissect the haughty elf, even from way back in the bushes.

"I have eyes," Legolas snipped back. "Perhaps if you were taller than a rock, I might have even seen you. Or if you'd looked less like a rock." His own hands were coming perilously close to his bow and arrows. Gandalf sensed impending disaster, and he rose from the bushes.

"Well, if you could look lower than your own nose, you may not have such bad eyesight," Gimli raised the axe several inches. "And you were the one who came barreling around the corner. It is entirely your fault. Find your own comb," and here he ended with a scathing Dwarfish epithet for the elf.

In the blink of an eye, Legolas had his arrow drawn and pointed at the angry dwarf. The axe was now drawn back in the dwarf's hands. "Hold on there!" Gandalf called, hurrying forwards. Behind him, Sam, still gagged with Gandalf's hat, cowered with fear, and Gandalf couldn't blame him. The war between dwarf and elf was a fearsome one indeed. Gandalf doubted his own wisdom of rushing into a scrap, but some inner sense warned him that these two might come in handy. Someday, somehow, don't ask him…a mysterious force, he assumed.

Dwarf and elf turned to view the scruffy grey wizard approaching. Both raised their eyebrows and questioned, "Gandalf? What are you doing here?"

The wizard huffed grumpily. "Stopping you two from killing each other. Indeed, what would your fathers have said?"

Legolas smirked. "True, Mithrandir. He would advise me not to lower myself to the level of a dwarf." Sam chortled through the pointed hat at the elf's pun, and Gandalf spun and gave him his fiercest glare. The hobbit wilted.

Gimli shrugged. "My father? He would have said, 'Good riddance. What good are elves anyway?'" Gandalf had to physically restrain the elf from attacking Gimli. Gimli continued, "Anyway, this whole ordeal was the elf's fault. He attacked me, then blames me of theft. Theft of a comb, of all things!"

"I deduced that such a creature as yourself might need something like that, but now that I have conversed with you, I realize you wouldn't know what one was," Legolas sniffed and glanced sideways at the nearly mute hobbit, but made no comment as his attention was on the loss of his comb. Sam noticed a nervous tic to his hands that had not been present earlier. The elf was feeling the loss.

Unfortunately for them all, the dwarves of Gimli's line took pride in their cleanliness. Gimli roared at the elf and lunged forward, forgetting that Gandalf had moved between the two. All three went into the dirt in a pile of grey and brown beards and luscious golden hair. "They'll all need a comb after that," Sam muttered cheerfully into the hat, his sore feet forgotten. This was even better than the annual hog wrestling back at the Shire.

Gandalf was having the worst of it in the fight. Gimli was too short to catch hold of, and Legolas was too thin. His aged legs were creaking and complaining from where Legolas held them in a lock, when he suddenly spotted a golden (what else?) and pearl hairbrush snagged in the bushes beside them. A quick charm brought Legolas's hair into the elf's face, rendering him blind and allowing Gandalf to slip away. The wizard latched onto the brush and waved it before the elf's pale nose.

"You want it? Go get it!" he cried in a terrible voice and hurled the comb into the dark trees. The elf fixated on the comb and dashed into the woods, followed hotly by an angrily bellowing dwarf. The sounds crashed away into the distance.

Gandalf did not wait for the two to hash out their differences. He staggered up to Sam, grabbed his hat, wiped off the saliva, and spun away. "Samwise," he wheezed over his shoulder, "when your path lies in shadow, go all ways but that which leads you between an elf and his comb."

**Well, poor Gandalf is off to an inauspicious start to his reign as Ring Lord. **

**Galad Estel: I'm glad you're enjoying it. What is it with those wizards not even recognizing a giraffe when they hear it, hm? I feel Sam's pain. **


	4. In Which the Ring is Never Named

I apologize for what may be double posting. I attempted to post this earlier today, and it would not show up hours later, even though the website said my story had four chapters. So I'm trying again...

In Which the Ring is Never Named

"It needs a name."

Sam looked up in surprise as the first words in hours fell from Gandalf's lips. "Beg pardon, sir? Who, or what, needs a name?"

"The Ring, simpleton. It's tired of being called the Ring, or It. For that matter, so am I. It this, It that. Hardly the distinguished title of a creation that will shape the future of Middle Earth…" Oh dear, there Gandalf went again, rambling. Sam smiled politely and nodded, as all gentle-hobbits were taught to do.

Sam glanced around. They were currently passing through lightly wooded territory, near Gondor. Or so Gandalf said, but Sam wasn't certain after Gandalf's last supposed "shortcut" had led them through a particular massive forest with thousands of spiders. In truth, Sam was better off; Gandalf was still picking sticky spider webs from his beard. Enough about that incident; Gandalf was staring at him, waiting for something. Sam guessed his opinion had just been asked, so he ventured out with the first name to come to mind. "Bill? It does have a certain ring to it."

Gandalf snorted, loudly, startling the pack horse beside him. "Ring to it? Perhaps it does, but not _this_ Ring." He grimaced as he pondered it. "Bill? Rather a common name. No, we need something grand, mighty, something that will instill fear in all who hear its name." He was so immersed in the Ring that he failed to see the shadows stalking them.

Sam also was not paying attention to his surroundings anymore. He was thinking of new names. "How about Jack?"

Gandalf offered a look of complete derision, so Sam decided to forgo more names. Let the grumpy old wizard think up his own names. Just as Sam had turned to the topic of supper in his little mind, a large, man-shaped…shape… lunged out of the bushes and tackled him. "Well, slap me gaffer!" Sam exclaimed, staring up into the hooded face of a Man. "That wasn't nice at all."

"Nice has nothing to do with it," the Man replied, throwing his hood back. 'But you certainly don't look like an orc."

Funny, but that was exactly what the Treebeard fellow had said back in Fangorn. _Bless my buttons, _Sam reflected, _but we do get around. _Sam heard scuffling behind him, and turned to see Gandalf beating his assailant off with his staff. Curses in every tongue rolled from the wizard's lips with proficiency.

The Man suddenly smiled. "Mithrandir!" he cried, and leapt forward. The three collided and went down in the dust, but it only took a minute to sort all the limbs out.

When everyone stood again, the Man grabbed Gandalf's hand and shook it vigorously. "Mithrandir!"

"My name, yes," Gandalf grumbled. "Or one of them, anyway. What brings you out here, Faramir?" Faramir? Sam wondered. He'd heard about the man labeled the "wizard's pupil," but the hobbit was expecting someone more…Gandalf-ly. Not a frail-looking young man practically dancing in place with excitement…

Faramir was speaking. "Well, I did not expect to find you and a Halfling-that is a Halfling?-traveling together. I was actually hoping for a good Haradrim scrap. You know, show my father how tough I am, that old sibling rivalry thing," he slapped his armored chest and coughed. Gandalf ahh-ed in sympathy.

"Well, stick around, young Faramir. Haradrim tend to frequent these woods, oliphants and all. Perhaps in a few months time, you'll find one. As for us, we needs be going. Worlds to save and all that, you know." Faramir ahh-ed in sympathy.

"Well, if you ever need me, you'll know where to find me," he said.

Sam merely watched in confusion as Gondor's soldiers faded into the forest, as silently as they had come forth. Gandalf picked his crumpled hat from the dirt path and brushed it off on Sam's shoulder. The hobbit coughed politely. They resumed their walk.

**And they draw ever closer to Mordor.**

**Galad Estel: Indeed! :)**


	5. In Which the Script is Flipped

In Which the Script is Flipped

After a particularly nasty bit of swamp and sludge, they spotted the imposingly black Black Gate ahead of them (and no, not a misprint in the parchment… it was truly black, one of the blackest things Sam had ever seen, blacker than even his gaffer's black cat). Sam had wondered if they should instead take a back way in, but Gandalf had raised his eyebrows and pointed to the still-lingering webs in his beard, and Sam had argued the issue no further.

Now they stood just outside the gates, staring up the walls. Sam was appalled that Mordor had not so much as a door knocker. Did no one outside the Shire have any concept of politeness? Why, they were just asking for a dent in their doors, which, he noticed, was what Gandalf had in mind. He saw the wizard stretch out his staff and begin beating a good-sized dent in the Black Gate. Such an act seemed very in character for the dour fellow.

Before long, and just before Gandalf beat a hole clean through the gate, a loud screech sounded from above and a great black shape swooped down between Sam and the wizard. Sam shuddered with horror as he felt an icy presence seize him. The very dust under his feet seemed to flee as it was whipped up by the beating wings. The poor hobbit couldn't lift a finger from his side, and bother it all, he felt a sneeze coming on. His allergies came at the worst of times.

Gandalf only sighed and rubbed at his ear. "Why do you always insist on screeching? You could rumble, or roar, or at least be civilized and say 'greetings.'"

An almost shapeless black robe dismounted from the fell beast, tangling slightly in the reins before coming to stand before Gandalf. "My apologies," it hissed. "But you have ze Ring. Ze mazster wants ze Ring." It held out a mail clad invisible hand. "And if you do not give it up, ve shall have to kill you, alzough ve will likely kill you anyvays."

Sam stared in shock and then sneezed. The wraith's beast reared back, startled by such an explosive sound coming from such a small creature.

Gandalf calmly stood his ground. "Why the new accents?"

The Ringwraith blinked, though neither Gandalf nor Sam saw it do so. "Well, erm, ze Mazster vanted us to zound more…evil. Do you think it is vorking?"

"Honest truth?" Gandalf asked. "No, you sound rather ridiculous." This time, he was taken aback to hear a large, insulted gasp from the wraith. "Don't get your robes in a knot. I'm here to take over as the new Ringlord." The wraith gasped even louder and clasped its hands together.

"No! You can't do zhat!" it cried, but made no move to draw its weapon, a large, rusty sword that probably couldn't have been drawn anyway. Its piercing cry caught the attention of two more passing wraiths, numbers Five and Two. They swooped down as well, zooming over Sam's head and landing before Gandalf.

'Vhat is ze trouble?" Number Five asked shortly.

The first one, Number Three, replied. "Gandalf ze Grey vishes to become the Ringlord. He can't do zhat! It's not in ze books." At his companions' raised eyebrows, the wraith clarified, "Figurative books, of course. I mean, zhey are supposed to try to destroy ze Ring, not keep it. Ze mazster said ve kill them because zhey try to destroy it and hurt him."

Number Three's muddled explanation only made it worse for the others, but he had created self-doubt. Sauron hadn't explicitly instructed what to do if the enemy wished no harm to the Ring. And this powerful brother to their Dark Lord was calling the Ring his own. Gandalf sensed an opportunity to get to the heart of the matter, and he straightened up. "Say, why don't you just take me to Sauron, and we'll talk things over, figure out what to do, eh?"

The ringwraiths discussed this idea quietly, and finally agreed to the plan. They hated such befuddlement, and this seemed like such a reasonable fellow.

**And they have arrived! Read and review!**

**BrightWatcher: Thanks for the reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying it so far. As far as I know concerning strictly jewelry, sterling refers to a particular grade of silver, but "Stirling" is still a cool name. Sounds very British or Scottish. :)**


	6. In Which Gandalf Quotes and Conquers

In Which Gandalf Quotes and Conquers Middle Earth

Sauron looked as surprised as a single flaming eye could when Gandalf and Sam appeared on the tower's top with Number Two. (Number One would have come, but his armor was being oiled, a highly necessary process, especially after the time Number Four became stuck and got mistaken for a suit of armor for 17 days. But we digress.) The Great Eye narrowed with suspicion. "Well, well, Gandalf. What brings such an esteemed do-gooder to my humble dwellings?"

Gandalf held the Ring up. Sauron trembled with joy. "You really should be more careful where you leave your things," Gandalf lectured. "Who knows when someone might come along and toss them in a volcano."

"And you've come to return it!" The Eye bounced on its platform with suppressed happiness. Sam, despite his mortal terror, was reminded of a dog waiting for a biscuit. "I always knew your innate goodness would come in handy." A flaming golden tendril stretched out to take the Ring, but Gandalf pulled it out of reach.

"Ah, ah. Don't be hasty. Finders keepers, Sauron. I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse. I'm here to replace you as the new Ringlord, and bring a new era of joy and peace."

But Gandalf, all you'll end up with is a gaggle of followers who fear and hate you," Sauron gasped desperately, but Gandalf laughed. "All right, so you'll get control of Middle Earth and thousands of obedient minions. But is it worth the sleepless nights? The smell of orcs? The mind-numbing logic of Number Nine? Don't ever argue religion with that one."

Gandalf saw the fear and sorrow of Sauron, and even his mighty heart was moved. Everyone paused to gaze in wonder at his greatness, but then the moment was lost. "Paper, Rock, Scissors?" Gandalf finally asked with a shrug.

Sauron sighed. He was in no position to argue. The Ringwraiths were too confused by Gandalf's claim on the Ring to follow orders. Gandalf possessed the Ring, and he had enough power to use it. Being a large Eye made physical struggle rather unlikely, especially when blinding flashes of light were likely, as Gandalf was wont to do. "You mean the fate of Middle Earth will be decided by Paper, Rock, Scissors?"

"Hey, if it can be done with riddles, why not?" Gandalf replied. "Sometimes the smallest games can change the course of the future. Best three out of five. If I win, I rule Middle Earth. If you win, the Ring goes back to where it came from and we continue as expected. I'm giving you a fighting chance, old chap."

So it passed that they decided the future of the world on that tall tower. Sauron called up his faithful Mouth to play the game, as he was also lacking hands of his own. Gandalf and Mouth sat down on the two nearest rocking chairs and solemnly faced each other. Number Two hovered over the Mouth's shoulder, chewing on one gauntleted fist in nervous anticipation. Sam rolled his hobbity eyes and went to Gandalf's side. The first round went to Gandalf, paper over Mouth's rock. The second round went to Gandalf as well, his scissors cutting Mouth's paper.

"This is incredibly stupid," Sauron seethed.

Both Sam and Number Two shushed him, fascinated with the last round. Alas, it turned out not to be the last round, for Sam's allergies acted up again and he sneezed, bumping Gandalf's arm and causing him to lose focus.

"SAMWISE GAMGEE!"

Finally the last round arrived, for Gandalf won again, his rock smashing Mouth's scissors. The grey wizard leapt to his feet with a triumphant cry. "Now the world will change! I shall bring peace, justice, and order to my galax—ahem, Middle Earth." He strode proudly around Mouth to stand before Sauron. "Now, my fellow, a deal's a deal. Move over for the New Dark Lord."

Sauron was getting hot under the collar. Or, he would have been if he had a collar, much less a neck. Suffice it to say, he grew more heated than he was already. "Fool! You think I will give up my kingdom. Don't you know? Evil overlords never keep their promises. Number Two, kill this upstart wizard and return unto me my Ring."

The wraith gasped. "But Mazster, zhat vould be cheating!"

"Now's not the time to develop a moral code," Sauron snarled, but the wraith crossed its arms and shook its head.

"Ze wizard is our new mazster now. He has claimed ze Ring."

Mouth had been lurking in the background, sulking over his poor skills in Paper, Rock, Scissors. He saw the horrible position of his master, and his loyalty not being bound to the Ring, he cried out, "Lord Sauron, I will save you! I will stop this madman!" He drew a mighty sword with a flourish and lunged forward to kill Gandalf.

However, Mouth had underestimated the usefulness of hobbits. His left foot found one of Sam's frying pans and he slipped in mid-lunge. As luck would have it, Gandalf dropped the Ring right at that moment. He bent over to retrieve it with a self-depreciating "butterfingers," and Mouth flew over his head. The faithful servant face-planted onto the tower floor, but his sword's hilt flew out of his hand.

To everyone's shock and Mouth's horror, the sword flew straight and true, directly into the Great Eye. "AAAAAAHHHHH!" Sauron screamed, bouncing up and down in pain. Lightening crackled; thunder rolled. The eye imploded in on itself with a less-than-impressive "pop." A soft breeze rustled everyone's hair. (Sauron had not yet grown in power enough to create a shockwave, you see.)

Mouth felt simply terrible. He dropped to his knees and sobbed his heart out. "What have I-hiccup-done?" he whimpered.

Gandalf had placed the Ring on his finger and now gazed down at the wretched creature with pity. "You didn't mean for this to happen. But then, no one means for this to happen. Well, some do, but that's not relevant right now. But Sauron **is** dead, and there is a lesson to be learned from this."

Mouth stared up at him through his tear-stained helmet. "What?" he sniffled.

"Never run with scissors, or any other pointed object," Gandalf told the Mouth of Sauron. "It's all good and fun, until somebody loses an Eye."

**Now who can place all those quotes? Hope you all enjoyed my longest chapter. I had a lot of fun with this one. **

**BrightWatcher: *slaps self* Wow, did I miss that one. I see it now. :) You're right, it would be appropriately incorrect. **


	7. In Which Gandalf Meets His Minions

In Which Gandalf Gets to Know His Minions (And Would Rather Not)

The whole process of being an evil dark lord was going well, as long as Gandalf reminded himself that ultimate power was worth a lack of hygiene and intelligent conversation. Not to say that his orc minions did not try; they even had a giant chessboard on Dungeon 3. Unfortunately, the pieces were more often used to bash in the head of opponents than in play. It took guts to play Orc chess, and sometimes brains, and sometimes random appendages…

Gandalf shuddered as he realized that his train of thought was leading down a gruesome and decidedly orc-ish path. The orcs were not his style of minion. He preferred happy, harmless, fat little hobbits. With the exception of Sam (and he was not too happy at the moment), those were in short supply in Mordor.

Eventually he had to deal with the issue of his top minions, the dreaded and ghoulish Nine, the Ringwraiths, the Black Poison of Sauron's evil pla- "Ooo – kay… What's up?" One of the said dreaded Nazgul shifted its position. Gandalf was jerked out of his dark ruminations.

They were gathering in a half circle around his new throne, cowls pulled up and black robes blowing in the breeze from the window. (Gandalf had forced the rusted thing open to get rid of the orc smell, a task proving worthy of one of the Valar). He scowled at the uncomfortable wraith who had interrupted him.

"Which one are you?" he asked. "You all have dreadfully similar-looking non-existent faces. If I am supposed to rule over you, I should be able to tell you apart, so introduce yourselves."

"I'm Four."

"I'm One."

"I'm Eight."

"I'm Three."

"I'm Seven."

"I'm Nine."

"I'm Two."

"I'm Five."

Five poked the last Nazgul, who had his invisible nose stuck in a small dusty volume. He looked up (or Gandalf had to assume he did). "Oh, I'm Six."

Gandalf wanted to slap himself in frustration, but alas, 'twas not a lordly thing to do. "That helps me tremendously," he said, sarcasm dripping off his tongue. Number One – or was it Seven? – stepped forward and loomed over the new Dark Lord. Gandalf leaned back and met faintly glowing red eyes. Gandalf was not afraid! He was just naturally fidgety.

"I am One, the Witch King," the Nazgul hissed threateningly. "I am your lieutenant, the right arm of your expanding power, the bane of your enemies' existence. I will distinguish myself from my brethren if you but give me the word, Master. I will annihilate – "

"Thank you!" Gandalf cut him off quickly, and paused. "You're not speaking with that accent..."

Nazgul Four leaned in and whispered in a conspiratory manner, causing Gandalf no small discomfort, as everyone knows that the Black Breath is never pleasant. "Number One takes himself waaay too seriously. He ordered us to stop the whole thing after he found out that Number Nine ordered ushankas for us all."

"Ushanka-whas?" Gandalf coughed and waved the cheerful Nazgul away. "There's got to be a mouthwash for that!"

"It's a culture thing," Number Nine shrugged. "I thought we should really feel the parts in life we play. It's expression, man. Cowls are out, ushankas are in."

"I still don't know…"Gandalf shook his head. "Nevermind. I called you all here today to ask you some questions. I am… new, at this dark lord thing, and I want to start off on the right foot." _And the right foot means buying them each a year's worth of toothpaste and mouthwash. _

Number Three raised a metallic claw and twisted its cowl. "Why not the left foot? And shouldn't we start off on the wrong foot, since we _are_ evil?"

Gandalf buried his face in his hands. "We already have," he moaned.

Number One sensed his despair and turned to the others in wrath. "You try the Master's patience! Cease thy foolish pratterings, else I banish thee to the depths of the Fell Beast Tower!" and he raised his sword, black flames running down its blade.

Gandalf let out a short, unwizardly scream (he swears it was a shout) at the sight, only to realize that the other Nazgul were not moving. _This must be something that occurs often_, Gandalf thought. _A neat trick. I bet it looks awe-inspiring in a battle. _He cleared his throat at the awkward silence that followed. One could never blame the Grey Pilgrim for this momentary loss of dignity. He was under a significant amount of stress.

Gandalf rallied at last and tried again. "What I want to ask you is… what do you do all day? I mean, I sit here and plot ways to restore Middle Earth to its former glory, but a dark lord can't do that all day. He needs a break."

Number One loomed large again, and Gandalf shrank back. "Make thy presence known in the dreamworld of the Free Children. Fill their future generations with a hopeless vision of thy mighty –"

"No. That's too evil for a break."

"Oh…"

They stared at each other until Number Six noticed the deafening silence and lifted its head from its book. "I read," it volunteered. "I suggest the same for the Master. You see, the Palantir is very useful for that. You can view entire volumes from the Minas Tirith Public Library. The only downside is the distortion of the round view screen, although it is a touchscreen. I have the orcs working on a flatter version. With your permission, I would like to call it the Mordor Fire Tablet."

Gandalf could hardly believe his ears.

Number Seven wrung his hands. "What if that name is already taken?"

Number One put a hand to his sword. "Then I will _break_ them."

Number Five shook his head. "I don't think that's how patents and trademarks work in the civilized world."

Gandalf scowled at him. "This is Mor. Dor." he ground out.

Five nodded. "Point taken."

**An Ushanka is a real thing. And Number Nine was taking the Russian flavor too far. Look it up. :) I love the Ringwraiths, and already they're starting to develop different personalities. **

**BrightWatcher: Why thank you! I'm glad it was successful. I think I enjoyed writing that chapter the most so far too. **

**EnchantedAuthoress: Not a problem at all. I think may be having trouble. My uploading has not been working the best either. **


	8. In Which Gandalf Gets Stylishly Evil, or

In Which Gandalf Gets Stylishly Evil, Or Not

The day finally came when the orc-kind decided that Gandalf needed a makeover. That day dawned dark and stormy, much as every day in Mordor dawned. Sam was somewhere outside the castle, searching for a suitable place to plant a garden. Gandalf lay on his back on the floor, counting ceiling tiles in the throne room. Somehow, the life a dark lord had seemed more glamorous than this… He was half asleep when the sound of orc feet approached.

"What's this?" Gandalf sat up and asked when presented with an entire wardrobe of various black robes and rusty armor. "What do I want with all this dark, dingy junk?" The burdened orcs flinched under his sharp questioning, but they continued to shuffle the clothing into his room.

The head orc cleared his throat, an unusually mild mannered and sensitive fellow with bifocals. "I am sorry, my lord, but the rules and traditions of darklorddom clearly state and demand the wearing of dark, dingy colors. Now, do you wear large or medium in tunics?" He held up both.

"Demand it? What rules?" Gandalf ignored the proffered shirts. "I happen to like grey and white, especially grey. It hides dirt wonderfully."

The orc sighed. "The white beard will have to go as well. We took the liberty of bringing some black hair dye." He stepped back and waved towards a large hairy orc. "This is Bill, Mordor's hair stylist."

"Bill?" The orc in question had the decency to look embarrassed.

"The Halfling named him."

That explained it. "Oh. … So what about these ridiculous rules and regulations?" Gandalf dodged an orc with a tape measure. He fled to the throne and climbed up the tall edges. There he sat with dignity, out of reach of the stubby orcs. He hoped they wouldn't call in a troll.

"Well, as put down by the original Dark Lord, Morgoth, all that reside in Angband (or Baradur, as Sauron amended) must, and I quote, 'look foul and feel foul.'"

"Ridiculous," Gandalf huffed. "What about Sauron's stint as Annatar?"

The head orc waved a surprisingly well-manicured paw in dismissal. "A mere ruse used to confuse our estranged relatives. Sauron was not in Baradur at the time."

"But look foul _and_ feel foul?" Gandalf was highly skeptical. "I've heard of looking fair and feeling foul, even looking foul and feeling fair, but certainly not both. And I'm not a _Dark_ Dark Lord. I'm a _Good_ Dark Lord. I'm trying to save Middle Earth."

The head orc looked as if he wished to argue with Gandalf's distinction, but he refrained. "Nevertheless, you reside here as ruler. Hence you must look foul at the very least."

Ring heard them arguing and gave the metal equivalent of a sigh. It liked black, but Gandalf wasn't having any advice from It at the moment. It sulked, wishing Sauron could come back-such a wonderful fashion sense. Gandalf had never even gotten around to naming It, and It certainly wasn't going to volunteer Sauron's pet name.

It perked up as it heard the words "look foul" and suddenly Its finish took on a mischievous twinkle. It would pay Gandalf back for ignoring It, for refusing to name It, all in the innocent guise of trying to help.

"You must look foul, my lord," the head orc was still insisting to the flustered Gandalf. The wizard was way in over his bushy head, but It felt no pity. Gandalf should have read the job description.

_I will help you, my master,_ Ring whispered. _He is right. You must look fowl at the very least. _

"Who do you think you are?" Gandalf started to exclaim, but he only managed to say "Who-" before the Ring acted. There was an impressive explosion of darkness and flame, and several orcs were singed. Everyone fell to the floor amid orcish squeals of terror. The smoke swirled in the throne room for several minutes before starting to clear.

Three Nazgul rushed in, swords drawn and eyes flashing invisibly. "Where is he? Where is the Master?" They cried in hissing chorus. Slowly, every pair of eyes in the room, visible and non, swiveled to the throne. Something fluttered on the top of the throne. A feather drifted down and landed on Number Five's shoulder. He brushed it off and peered upwards, concerned. "Master? Is that you?"

"Who?" Gandalf sputtered. "Who?"

Everyone gasped in dismay. There on the top of the throne sat an ordinary, ruffled, and very indignant hoot owl. The Ring was firmly secured to one talon. The Dark Lord was an owl! Oh, the unevilness of it all! The humanity – er, owlery! The head orc was horrified. "Owls aren't evil," he cried. "They aren't foul-they certainly don't look foul."

_Oh yes they do,_ the Ring chuckled evilly. _They look very fowl._ It felt waves of anger rolling off of Gandalf, and the owl began pecking at the Ring on its talon. "Who!" it cried. "WHO!"

"It's us, Master!" Number Three encouraged gently, having never interacted with an owl before. "Your faithful servants. Remember us?"

Number Five banged him upside the head. "Idiot, that's what owls say."

Number Two frowned, unseen. "Now, Five, be nice. It's not like we get owls in Mordor every day, not like when that strange bald wizard with no nose boarded here while Three was on mission."

The head orc shook his head. This would never do. He turned to Bill and instructed in a low, urgent tone, "Get Number One to this tower, and fast. We've got to change him back. Can you imagine the hole this will put in Mordor's reputation? The Dark Lands being ruled by an owl? Go!"

The throne room churned into pandemonium as orcs fled in every direction.

A few days later the head orc nodded in satisfaction. The entire story had been completely confined to the throne room. Well, except for the orc tabloid "Meat for the Mental Menu," and everyone knew what a rumor mill that was. Completely unreliable. Still, he'd have the latest editor executed for spreading such falsehoods. That job had the fastest changeover in all of Mordor.

After four days of furious molting, steadfast starving (he refused to eat the rats that Three faithfully brought him), and excruciating boredom, Gandalf had finally been restored to his old body. He didn't speak to the Ring for days more, thoroughly put out with its behavior.

**Poor Gandalf. You'd think he'd get the hint and go home, but he's determined to see this through. **

**BrightWatcher: I do love quotes! :) Thanks for continuing to review! **

**Galad Estel: Yep, that's what Gandalf decided too. Thanks for reviewing!**

**D L Sauron: Glad you're enjoying it. I do indeed plan to continue. Thanks for the review!**


	9. In Which the Nine Try to Step Carefully

In Which the Nine Try to Step Carefully Around Their New Master

"I'm bored, man," Nine punched Six in the shoulder as the bookish Nazgul kept reading his parchment novel _Night Life of An Orc_.

Six gasped in pain and doubled over for air. Six was not the strongest of the Nazgul by far. "What?" he wheezed, which wasn't that different from his normal breathing. Rather, non-breathing.

Nine just patted his shoulder this time. "Sorry, man. But seriously, dudes, this life is for the birds. There's just nothing new anymore…" The nine Nazgul, feared and hated, currently sat in a tall spire of Baradur, twiddling their invisible thumbs.

Five glanced up from his chess game with Two. "We've lived too long for anything new, and besides, Gandalf doesn't want us off doing evil."

Nine spread his arms wide. "You know what they say about idle hands, man. I'm just trying to ease some tension."

Eight finally looked up from the small orc he was dissecting. Gandalf had yet to break him of that bad habit. "Tension?" he hissed. "Tell me about it. I haven't torn anyone good limb from limb in days! I think I'm getting depressed." Three sidled away from him nervously.

Four sighed a dramatic sigh (although the Nazgul rarely did anything _not _dramatic, Four was worse than most). "I've seen you pouring your mouthwash down the sink each night. You think you're depressed? Orc-gin is better than that stuff!"

"Forget depressed!" Seven exclaimed, wringing his hands. "What do you think has happened to Sauron? I miss him, and I'm worried. Who will take care of him in that great flaming…eye in the sky?"

Two got up from his chess game and came and hugged Seven. "There, there," he comforted the sniffling Nazgul. "We're just going to have to put our best face forward with the new master."

"Why?" Three asked from where he now hovered over the chess game. "He can't see them." Five reached over and smacked him a good one with his mailed hand.

Two was undiverted. "He is under a lot of stress right now, and I think we should show him a little support. After all, it's a big job."

"But how?" Seven worried. "He doesn't like us. I know he doesn't."

Two rebuffed, "Then we'll be on our best behavior. We'll make him like us."

Eight looked up at that with a gleam in his eye. "We can give him dead things. I have dead things."

Five shuddered. "Dead things don't make people like you. Honestly…Put your heads together and think, you idiots."

Well, they thought. And thought. And thought some more. And just when Three was about to pass out from all the thinking, the Nazgul had settled on a plan. It was a daring plan, a brazen and un-heard-of plan. They were going to be nice. And that was when Eight actually did pass out.

The plan was different for each Nazgul. One would make his best effort to speak kindly about everyone. Two helped him with that, often saying, "If you can't say anything nice, take a deep breath instead." Well, it was perhaps misguided advice, but Two meant well. After a few dozen Black Breath fear-frozen bodies, they scrapped the idea.

Two, already the nicest of the bunch, was to encourage Gandalf on his downer days. He tried, he really did. But after several days of Nazgul positive thinking, Gandalf only wanted to throw himself out the window. Three thought he was still under the illusion of being an owl. Two gave up on his pep talks fairly quickly.

Three was supposed to bring Gandalf his morning newspaper, but he lost himself on the way up nearly every time, prompting a new complaint from Gandalf about the paper route boys.

Four was to keep Gandalf entertained, which he did by reading every juicy tidbit from the orc tabloids over breakfast before work. Gandalf had never expected that Mordor thrived on such sordid tales. After the article on Grishnap and Belagh's unexpected honeymoon, Gandalf ordered another purge of "Meat for the Mental Menu."

Five thought the idea was too far-fetched and impractical. He refused to take part in such a fiasco and instead left for a round of golf in North Mordor with the recovering Mouth. They struck up a firm friendship as a result, partly because Five rescued Mouth from a touchy Balrog bartender.

Six and Seven were supposed to take Gandalf out on the town – er, castle – to enjoy himself…But they don't talk about that. Ever. But Six never stopped complaining about the pickpocket.

Eight's only chore was to refrain from killing, maiming, or destroying anything for as long as possible. He made it six whole hours before cracking.

Nine tried to introduce Gandalf to Mordor Weed. "Packs twice the punch of that Shire stuff, dude," he promised. And after a day of smoking Mordor Weed and singing strange lyrics in the Black Speech about orc maidens and elf monsters, Gandalf avoided the laid-back Nazgul like the plague.

This was not to say that Gandalf was unappreciative. He really admired their efforts. _The poor Nazgul,_ he mused._ They try so hard, bless their hearts…or black holes where the hearts are supposed to be. But if I have to hear the song about Mouth's long lost love one more time, I _will _disembody them for a few hundred years. _

**The poor Nine: the harder they try, the more Gandalf wants to off himself, or them. The story is getting close to the end. Read and review! :)**

**DL Sauron: Indeed, that was rude of him. But it wasn't actually Gandalf's fault. Mouth shouldn't have been running with pointy objects. And no orcs were permanently harmed in the making of this story…except for the one Eight dissected. **

**Enchanted Authoress: Yep, ol' Moldy Voldy. I figured he and Sauron might pal up now and then. That might make a fun story for another time… "In Which Sauron Hosted a Slumber Party."**

**Galad Estel: Thanks! I've always loved the Black Riders, and they get such little attention.**


	10. In Which Sam Flees a Nightmare and

In Which Sam Flees a Nightmare and Gandalf Fends for Himself

Sam believed in giving everything a chance to prove itself, but when it came to cooking or gardening, he had less patience than most hobbits. Cooking was an art form, plain and simple, and gardening was a sincere act of a servant's devotion. He took both seriously, which was why he found himself lurking outside the cafeteria kitchens of Mordor.

"It can't be any worse than the other things here," he told himself bravely. "Cause I'm sure Orcs eat their eggs in the morning too, just like everyone else. Shore up, Samwise!"

His pep talk gave him the courage at last to wander into the kitchens. Orcs bustled here and there, carrying large pots of soup in and out the swinging doors. He thought it was soup, but what made him wonder were the smoking holes in the floor wherever the soup spilled over. Sam felt a surge of homesickness for his own tidy kitchen and Frodo.

"Hello there, little Halfling!" thundered a mighty voice behind him, and Sam turned and scowled up at Two. The blank black spot in the robes stared back at him. "What's the trouble?"

Sam wrung his hands. Long ago, Two had ceased to frighten him. The Nazgul was always seeking to lend a helping hand, and unlike Eight, Sam had not seen him ripping, tearing, and destroying anything or anyone. "I'm hungry, and I'm not sure what you eat here."

"Perhaps I can help you," Two offered at last. "I spent a summer as an apprentice to the great Chef Biguts. I was exploring alternate career paths at the time, until Sauron caught me and sent me to Angmar to help out One."

Sam perked up. Another cook. A mind of like purpose and design. The fact that it came with a ringwraith was a small matter. "Then I would appreciate your help. I'll need these seasonings…"

They cooked together for nearly an hour, whipping up a less-than-delightful salad of the few nonpoisonous plants of Morder. Still, Sam was happy. He had found a cooking friend. Two, now with a white apron over his black robes, had located some frozen meat and was frying it on the large stove.

Once done, they each took a plate and sat down at the bloodstained mess table. Sam raised his glass in a toast. "To a real meal at last!"

Two clinked his glass against Sam's. "Indeed," he hissed cheerfully. "I haven't had this much fun since I prepared that she-elf for Sauron's Second Age Dinner Party."

Sam froze in place, camaraderie forgotten as he studied the meat on his plate.

"Is it…elf?" Sam queried, staring up suspiciously at the towering Nazgul.

"Of course not!" Two was indignant. "Give me a little credit for knowing about you picky outsiders."

Sam was not reassured. "Dwarf?"

"Not at all!" Two scoffed.

"…man?"

"No chance!" Two preened proudly.

"Hobbit?" Sam squeaked.

Two ruffled his hair. "Now you're being ridiculous!"

Sam decided that perhaps he would survive here after all. He tentatively took a bite of the stringy meat, and found it pretty tasty. For the first time in weeks, he felt a smile crossing his face. Then the universe turned on him. Again.

"I searched long and hard for that," Two rumbled. "Best spider fillet in all Baradur. In fact, it's the cut right above the…little Halfling? Where are you going- oh…" Two stared at the hobbit-shaped hole in the side of the dungeon and sighed, looking down at Sam's full plate in awkward silence. He shuffled it over next to his own. "Well, I hate to see it go to waste…"

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The day was growing late, and Gandalf was getting dreadfully hungry. Sam was nowhere to be seen. The two of them had finished the packed rations and donated lembas for lunch. Now they needed to fend for themselves. He would ask the orcs only as a last resort, and the Mouth was still inconsolable. The poor thing had taken to binge drinking and chain smoking, doing little for his already reprehensible dental health. That left the Nazgul. But they were men once, surely they of anyone knew where decent food could be had.

He stepped to the door of his throne room and pulled it open. "One?" he called tentatively, then remembered. One was redecorating his room in red paint. At least Gandalf hoped it was red paint. He was never sure with One. "Two?" …. "Three?" …. "Four?"

Four popped his cowled head around the corner and cheerfully announced, "At your service, Master!" Gandalf was slowly beginning to tell the Black Riders apart, and he remembered this one was…rather bouncy. It took all kinds, he supposed.

"Four, yes. I, erm, I'm rather hungry," it wasn't the most intimidating thing a Dark Lord had ever told a minion, but Gandalf's stomach was growling.

Four cocked his invisible head to one side. "Of course, Master. I'll check with the dungeons, but I think I remember Chef Blughzh saying that elf had just entered season."

Gandalf turned green, and luckily, Four was observant enough. "Not elf, then…Dwarf? I've always personally thought them a little tough, but I suppose…Oh." He watched Gandalf run for the nearest bathroom. "Dwarf's off the menu too then?" The sound Gandalf made confirmed that.

When the new Dark Lord returned, looking less green but highly skittish, Four told him, "Unfortunately, the castle kitchens only carry seasonal items – we're working to save our environment, you know – , so we're going to have to expand our options. I know just who can help." He leaned out of the throne room and screeched.

Almost instantly, Six was at the door with several orcs bearing a heavy covered burden. They staggered into the room and placed the object on the floor before his throne.

Six paced as the orcs removed the cover, revealing a square slab of dark crystal stone. "Behold, the Volcanic and Extremely Powerful Tablet of Doom and Destruction!"

They all stared down at the stone until Gandalf asked, "Isn't that a bit wordy?"

Six shrugged. "It's a hot field right now. Most of the names were taken. Granted, this is no Palantir of Valinor, but we're focused on function, not trimming. And the cost of production is right, too! We only use up 23 orcs in the dark magic required to make one of these."

The bookish Nazgul was being so talkative and happy that Gandalf couldn't help a small smile. "And how is this getting me lunch?"

"Mordor Maps, of course!" Six kicked the stone, and it began to glow on the forward face. "With this, we can find any restaurant or tavern you desire!"

Four pushed in beside them. "This is great! You've outdone yourself this time, Six!"

It turned out, a surprising number of restaurants called Morder home. Four, being the very sociable sort of wraith, had visited most of them. He provided reviews for each one as Gandalf called them out.

"How about Grishpah's Fast Food?"

"Ah, that's a good one. They release your food and you catch it on the run. Tastes better that way, they claim." Four leaned back and grinned at the memories, although no one saw him.

"No, then. How about Blegah's Smorgasbord?"

"Good food, but a bit pricey. Sauron always had to take a small loan from the Mordor Bank to pay for his broiled fire slug eggs," Four reflected, and Gandalf wrinkled his nose. At the slugs, not the pricing. He was not a cheapskate. Really. It wasn't his fault that wizard's weren't wealthy.

"Moving on… Megutzh's Imports?"

"Ah, they bring in the freshest that Middle Earth has to offer. They fly it in by Fell Beast, so it's never been iced. Men from Gondor, Oliphaunt steaks from Harad, horses from Rohan, you name it, they've got it." Unfortunately for the free world, that was true.

Gandalf saw one more restaurant with five stars and asked, "What about Shelob's Lair Bar and Grill?"

Six volunteered this time. "It's a laidback atmosphere with less outlandish dishes. I go there with Seven often."

Gandalf thought it was a good sign. Six and Seven were the tamest Nazgul, almost boring compared to some of the others. "Do they have normal food like cows or fish?" he asked.

"Fish," Six nodded, and that settled it.

When Gandalf and a small contingent of Nazgul arrived at Shelob's Lair Bar and Grill, the place was swarming with orcs (it was nightfall, after all). As Dark Lord and with the imposing One at his side, Gandalf was able to bypass the long wait list and was seated in the finest bone chair in the establishment. He didn't want to think about whose bones he might be sitting on, so he reached for the menu. It was all in Black Speech and very greasy.

_ Rohan Baby Horse Hooves – Finest hooves of Middle Earth, imported from Isengard_

_ Tasty Hobbit Legs – They don't need 'em, and you can't resist 'em._

_Oh yes I can, _Gandalf shuddered, and gladly noticed they were out of stock. He kept reading.

_Wizard's Beard Pasta – High in fiber and a great choice for weight watching._

_ Juicy Fish Fillet – in season catch of the day, served raw and wriggling. _

_ Taters and Coneys – A foreign dish with a gamey flavor. Served raw._

Gandalf finally managed to convince the management to cook the taters and coneys, and he began to feel hopeful for the first time since lunch. Obviously, Sam's influence had spread far in his short time here, and he silently thanked the absent hobbit.

His hopefulness lasted only until he found out that upon running out of rare coney, the establishment had decided to substitute fire bats from Mount Doom…without telling him until he'd started to eat.

And then, of all things, the waiter wanted a tip. Gandalf stiffed him.

**Apologies for the delay in updating. I just returned from a long vacation. Poor Sam almost found a friend, and Gandalf is getting close to the breaking point. There's one more chapter, and then we're done with this tale. What did you all think? **


	11. In Which Gandalf Finds that Being a Dark

In Which Gandalf finds that being a Dark Lord is not all Hunky-Dory

Several days later, the Nazgul were lying low, the orcs were tiptoeing through the castle, and Sam was still nowhere to be seen. His adventure in the kitchens must have finally broken the legendary resilience of hobbits. The unfortunate dining experience had certainly smashed the not-so-legendary patience of Gandalf, Grey Wizard and Dark Lord.

Gandalf wrung his hands together and groaned. "I can't take anymore of this," he gasped. "Crazy Nazgul, bat meat for dinner, trigger-happy Rings…How did Sauron ever handle it?" He clambered off the horribly uncomfortable dark lord throne and paced up and down the halls of Baradur, scratching at his mottled grey and black beard, pulling out a small feather. "I can't stand it!"

"It's tougher than it looks, for sure," a thin, willowy voice drifted from a dark corner. A wisp of shadow erupted from Gandalf's right and came to hover beside him. It formed into the faint outline of the evilest, vilest, darkest, dankest, most abominable, most hideous, most dire, most – well, you get the picture. Gandalf could hardly believe his eyes and almost questioned his sanity. Not that he hadn't done that before recently…

"Sauron? How on Middle Earth did you survive? I thought I destroyed you."

"Hardly," Sauron croaked hoarsely. "The Ring survived, so I survived. Simple as all that, really. I wouldn't have thought this would escape your attention, Mr. 'Wisest of all the Maiar.'" The Dark Maia's sarcasm had not faded with his body as he watched Gandalf try to shake off the static-filled feather.

Gandalf suddenly felt a wave of sympathy for the former Dark lord. "I never knew it was like this," he admitted. "You're far braver than I thought."

"It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it," Sauron agreed. "Unfortunately, I was the one naïve enough to fall for Morgoth's sales pitch. An oily fellow if there ever was one. You should have seen the horse he tried to sell me." He glanced around the throne room, gazing curiously at a small pile of feathers. "So I take it you're not enjoying your stay, Olorin?"

"To be truthful, no. I have a suggestion; would it be acceptable if I gave you back your precious Mordor?" Gandalf would have preferred to stuff it all down Sauron's shadowy throat, but some of Sam's politeness had rubbed off.

The Dark Lord regarded his fellow Maia with open suspicion, one transparent and evil eyebrow quirking up. Gandalf had not seen such an evil eyebrow since he spotted dear old Mrs. Longbottom's unibrow back at Bilbo's birthday party, bless her poor ancient heart. He was jerked from his traumatizing memories by the hissing answer of his companion. "What about my Ring?" Sauron questioned politely. He knew better than to be demanding in a situation like this.

"Erm, well, I think it would be best if we returned everything to where it was before all this started. The Ring will go back to-heheh-where it came from." Sauron's shadow ears, which had perked up, flattened when Gandalf caught his near slip of tongue.

"You honestly think you could still beat me? Without the Ring?" Sauron laughed. "I'll never be destroyed, because you'll never destroy the Ring. So…sure, why not? I'll give you the gaming chance this time."

"You're a good sport, Sauron. I'll turn this fortress over to you then." Gandalf grabbed his saddlebags (suspiciously and entirely packed) and slung them over his shoulder. "Once I relinquish the Ring, you can become a Flaming Eye again."

"Jolly good," Sauron walked Gandalf down to the gate, and held out an insubstantial hand. "Bad luck, Olorin. Drop by for tea sometime."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this, incident."

"I'd rather not mention it, either." They shook on it, and Gandalf mounted his horse and took off down the long path. Suddenly, Gandalf wheeled in his steed and looked back.

"Tell me, did you ever get sore feet?"

"Um, no?" Sauron was befuddled when he saw Gandalf's shoulders slump.

"Right, didn't think so."

Sauron helplessly watched his Ring canter away, and turned to the nearest Nazgul, Number Two. "Why are you just standing there? Go get that Ring!"

"That is cheating," Number Two protested. "Besides, he has not relinquished his hold on the Ring yet. He is still our master."

"You'll regret this," Sauron fumed as he watched Gandalf drop out of sight.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Bag End looked much the same as it always had. Gandalf swept through the wicket gate up to the round door. He tried the doorknob and found it unlocked, so he entered. There within the kitchen sat Frodo-chair, waiting. Yes, and there was Sam, carefully polishing the wood. The young hobbit jumped back in fear, looking only a little worse the wear for his stint in Mordor.

"Don't worry, Samwise. I'm here only to make amends," Gandalf pulled the Ring from his finger and hastily set it on the table. Then he pulled Sam outside, depositing him directly on the anthill under the window. (Gandalf didn't notice it, so he's not that cruel.) A quick memory charm and the hobbit remembered nothing of his journey to Mordor.

Gandalf trudged back into the hobbit hole and pointed his staff at Frodo. _Returnus this nightmareth flinto normalcy! _Another flash of light blazed through the home. Frodo pushed through a heavy fog and found himself sitting at his table. The fire crackled merrily in the fireplace. The wizard sat across from him holding his tea, having just explained the power of the Ring. Gandalf looked so wise and powerful, sitting across from him. (He also looked weary, Frodo secretly thought.)

"Will you not take the Ring?"

"DON'T, tempt me!"

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The Valar rolled on the floor in mass laughter, forgetting their tense preparation to intervene in Middle Earth and kicking their ethereal legs into the air. "See?" was all that Manwe could choke out, before he collapsed in another wave of giggles.

**This was the very first chapter of this story that I actually wrote, several months ago, and I just had to do some tweaking to fit with the rest. So Gandalf decided that he would do things the old-fashioned way. It's all for the best, and that wraps up the Tale of Gandalf, New Dark Lord Dude. Thanks to everyone for the encouraging reviews!**


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